This is experimental creative writing that was rejected from The New Yorker magazine:

The world seems at my command; all lecherous legionsdamned: fly lord, sly lord, lord of lies; Beezlebub, hot cold cauldron bubbling;toil and trouble. This mystifying mourning of soul scream. It’s morning. I takethe ferry across Victoria Harbour from TST to Central. Fairies, rain stain shirt pains. Although, I can’t complain—time trained; atemporal stone toss parabola—crowded ferry.

Rain-changer.

Same stranger...